


In your house of God

by Mamichigo



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: (somewhat. you'll get what I mean), Blasphemy, Blood, Choking, Dark, Graphic Description, M/M, Poetic, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-08-25 21:56:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16669045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamichigo/pseuds/Mamichigo
Summary: In his years of existence, Alucard has seen many different creatures, but never an angel.However, looking at Belmont, he's inclined to believe them to exist.





	In your house of God

**Author's Note:**

> [nasally voice] *taps mic* ahem, hello and welcome to alucard is horny: dark edition  
> also known as "I wanted to see how far I could take religious metaphors and still make it work" (decently far, as it turns out)
> 
> Explanation on the tags: there are some parts of the descriptions that get a lil on the weirder side (talking about taking someone's organs apart kind of weird). there's no actual gore in this fic, but if this still isn't your cup of tea, totally understandable

It was with a fleeting thought that Alucard decided that wings wouldn’t look out of place on the Belmont’s back. Maybe it was from the many hours staring at the man’s back as he walked ahead of their group, often leading the way through cities and dusty roads; it was inevitable Alucard would notice the broadness of his shoulders.

It seemed like a silly thing to have in his mind, but not at all surprising: on the road like they were, it was normal to find his mind wandering, sometimes to the most ridiculous territories. This was far from being troublesome, and certainly better than any other morbid images his grieving mind liked to conjure up, so Alucard simply smiled at Belmont’s back and waved the whole thing off.

They had more pressing issues at hand, after all.

By all means, that should’ve been the end of it. However, it surprised Alucard when the same reflection came to him, and sooner than he would’ve expected it to; all it takes is being surrounded by a dozen of angry demons snapping their teeth at them. Belmont, who was sharp even if sometimes not entirely accurate with his whip, swung his arms widely, in perfect and never ending circles. The muscles under his clothes strained with it.

He looked like a guardian, a fierce fighter. The sunset nestled in the crown of his head to make a golden halo; he’s glowing, he’s on fire. Belmont looks like a god walking among humans, disguised as nothing more than a snarky drunk. But when he’s in battle, his wings spread, and even if his feet never leave the ground, Belmont is very much taking flight right before Alucard’s eyes.

Of course, this was no time to let his thoughts wander, much less let his gaze drift to appreciate the sight, so Alucard pays the price for his distraction. Or at least he would, if Belmont didn’t swing his whip closer, the sound of its crack so close to Alucard’s ear it reverberates in his skull. Belmont never stops, it was unlike of him to do so once he had his fire going, so he moves forward and assaults the demon approaching Alucard.

His head turns to Alucard once he’s done and Alucard gets to see his glinting eyes up close when Belmont takes hold of a fistful of his coat and yanks Alucard to stand face to face with him. Belmont shows him his teeth in a snarl, eyebrows furrowed.

“Where the hell is your mind, pay attention!” Belmont growls; Sypha is yelling at them, annoyed but clearly worried, and there are demons screeching over their heads. Somehow, Alucard still picks up Belmont’s voice perfectly. “We don’t have time for this.”

Just as Belmont reminds Alucard of that, a demon slashes its claws at them; Belmont pushes him away at the same time he leans back, creating an empty space between them to leave the demon awkwardly trying to recover and fly after one of them. Alucard takes one look at Belmont’s fighting stance and smirks.

His sword flies, piercing through the creature’s skull. Blood comes pouring out, splattering on the floor, while some of it hits Belmont across the cheek. A disgusted noise escapes him, Belmont making sure Alucard sees the annoyance in his eyes, but the man turns back to the fight, already focusing back on his enemies.

A god of war at work, only swayed by the necessity to protect others, even those that don’t need his assistance. He’s pristine in a way that has nothing to do with dirt and baths, perfect and immaculate, a marble statue with unmatched beauty gracing the corridors of a chapel.

The sight of the blood, starkly red on Belmont’s skin, is imprinted onto Alucard’s mind, enough so that he could draw its exact shape from memory alone. Belmont and blood are no strangers to each other, Alucard has seen the combination many times, but this in particular is different. Meaningful.

Because Alucard sees wings on Belmont’s back the color of snow and he wants to _dirty them._

Even after taking Belmont not so delicate advice to concentrate, the thought doesn’t disappear, staying there like a scalding hot brand behind his eyelids. He tracks Belmont’s every move, even without looking at him, always aware of his exact position, of every sound he makes—from his tired panting to his pained grunts, every single silent intake of breath—like it’s part of his own heartbeat.

So, when Belmont cries out, Alucard hears it; more importantly, he hears the flesh tearing and the blood rushing out. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Belmont hissing as he unsheathes his sword to grip the hilt in his bleeding palm. His hold on the sword is shaky, but firm, almost painful.

The injury isn’t something worth pausing for, so Alucard concentrates on getting rid of the last wave of demons instead of following any of the reckless and instinctive urges blossoming in his mind. Even when the smell of Belmont’s blood gets so strong that it makes Alucard jaw tremble, teeth clattering a few times before he clenches his mouth shut against the jerky movements.

He loses himself in the rhythm of it, so, when a demon falls to the ground not to move again, and something else approaches him from behind, Alucard swirls, sword in hard and halfway through thrusting it forward.

“Alucard!” Sypha’s voice yells, followed by the ringing sound of metal colliding with metal. Alucard blinks once to see Sypha, eyes wide but hands burning with conjured fire, standing just a few inches away from his sword. Belmont is just to the side, his short sword held against Alucard’s own weapon, blocking its advancement. “What are you doing?”

Sypha sounds outraged, glaring at Alucard. Only when he lowers his sword and puts it back in its scabbard does Sypha drop her hands with an exasperated sigh. “Really, you and Belmont are like bloodthirsty animals.”

“Why am I being scolded too?” Belmont grumbles.

“I’ll let _both_ of you know that if you end up hurting me like this I will burn your hands until you apologize,” she huffs moodily. Alucard nods, but chuckles when she walks away grumbling something about getting herself clean.

“That woman is gonna kill me in my sleep, I can already tell,” Belmont says as he stretches his arms up, grunting when his shoulder audibly cracks. He rubs at the area while giving Alucard a look. “She isn’t exactly wrong, though. The hell is up with you today?”

“Worried about me, Belmont?” Alucard teases just for the satisfaction of seeing Belmont hurry to make excuses for himself.

 “Of course not, more worried about you getting your head cut before we even get to Dracula. Or worse, you cutting _our_ head off because you were too lost in your own head to realize we’re not part of the night hoard.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, it won’t come to that.” Alucard brushes him off, turning his back to the Belmont.

“Listen here—” He starts, but when Belmont realizes Alucard has no intention of staying and listening, he pauses to follow after the dhampir. When he’s close enough, Belmont clasps a hand around Alucard’s wrist, pulling him away harshly a few meters to a more secluded area. “I said listen, you bastard. I’ll ask again, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Alucard pulls his hand away; though there’s some resistance form Belmont, Alucard manages to free his wrist. In the place where Belmont held him, just below his cuff, there’s a dark red mark, and a drop of it trickling down his leather gloves. The hot liquid might as well be scorching on his skin.

“Are you listening to me?” Belmont seems put off by his lack of attentiveness, but Alucard just barely manages to tear his eyes away from the blood cooling on his wrist.

“You should take care of that,” Alucard blurts out, to Belmont’s confusion.

“Take care of what, exactly?” He asks carefully, face scrunched up. Alucard, who apparently has left of all his self control behind today, glances down at the injured hand and doesn’t lift it back up, transfixed by the color and smell of it.

When Belmont notices him looking at the blood, there’s a suspended moment between them, a pause in time charged with tension and so many emotions that Alucard can barely count or understand. Under Belmont’s watchful gaze, Alucard closes his eyes and brings his wrist to his lips. He licks the bloodstain, slow but eager, following the trail up his hand and under his glove until all of it is gone.

Then, with the tip of his tongue still pressed to the underside of his wrist, Alucard lets his eyes flutter open to look at the Belmont; when their gazes meet, Belmont shudders and Alucard smirks.

“Alucard— ” He doesn’t give the chance for Belmont to finish the sentence, cutting it off before it can even begin with a hard shove to the center of Belmont’s chest, slamming him against the bark of a tree.

Alucard holds Belmont’s face with one hand, gloved fingers pressing down with the promise of sharpness that isn’t there at the moment. His thumb pressures Belmont’s jawbone, in way that can’t be anything other than uncomfortable; oddly enough, Belmont tilts his head just so, closer to the contact, his mouth falling open.

A smile plays on his lips when he kisses Belmont, never letting go of him, fingers holding and holding so the touch won’t leave Belmont’s skin even hours later. So his jaw will ache and he’ll wince as he thinks of Alucard. And he’s desperate for it, desperate to have himself imprinted onto Belmont, _into_ him, to reach deep under his skin where he belongs.

Alucard feels like a devotee, kneeling after his god, asking for— Alucard isn’t sure what he’s yearning for, but it burns low in his guts, slithering around like poisonous snakes. And he wants to let the poison out, to share it until they’re both grotesquely melting into each other, so Alucard kisses Belmont harder, passing the poison from his tongue to Belmont’s, lets him taste the hunger and the dark desire.

A hand tangles itself into Alucard’s hair, pulling in the same rhythm of the Belmont’s quick and shuddering breaths, sharp and merciless as Alucard would expect Belmont to be. The proximity to the hand, however, brings Alucard dangerously close to the smell of Belmont’s blood.

Many times before, his father had told Alucard that the Belmonts had a characteristic scent to them: strong, holy and utterly disgusting; foul like no other human smelled. Now, recalling Dracula’s words, Alucard can’t help but disagree. Strong, yes, overwhelmingly so, overtaking all of his senses and forcing Alucard to focus entirely on the rush of blood in Belmont’s veins. Holy as well, stinging and painful, making Alucard’s insides contort in repulsed awe.

And all of it is intoxicating, all-consuming, too much and also too little. Longing for more, Alucard slithers a hand under Belmont’s shirt, against the warmth of his stomach, then up and up, over his bones and beating heart. Alucard finally stops kissing Belmont—he follows after Alucard, hungry and imploring, searching for more—and the man looks at him with glassy eyes, lips shining with their shared saliva.

Then he’s tugging the shirt off and, in the pause that creates, they watch each other. Alucard runs his tongue along his teeth, stopping at the sharp point of a fang, while Belmont watches, throat bobbing as he swallows, eyes never leaving Alucard’s mouth.

That’s all the confirmation he needs, so Alucard leans down and pierces the fragile skin under a collarbone and Belmont cries out, squirming under him, almost thrashing. Alucard doesn’t suck any of his blood, though he feels droplets of it on his tongue and Belmont’s pulse beating widely.

He lingers there, letting Belmont wallow in mixed pain and pleasure, letting him push his body closer to the bite, letting him pull his hair so hard Alucard is sure some strands tear off. His teeth slips away smoothly, barely any blood coming from the puncture wounds, but Alucard presses his tongue flat against the small holes.

Under him, Belmont is panting harshly, a hand against the tree to support himself, chest heaving. His eyes are squeezed shut and his lips are bright red from being bitten—by both Alucard and Belmont himself. Alucard watches him and he _wants._

He wants to take each of his ribs apart, to free the angelic body underneath from its cage. Alucard wants to drink the ichor in Trevor’s lungs, to feel it tremble inside his throat, wants to feel feathers stumble down in bloody clumps as Alucard clicks his shoulder plates out of its place. Alucard wants to make Belmont’s body a mess of disarranged limbs and get to hear him break from it. But, as that’s impossible as it is, Alucard settles for wrapping his hands around Belmont’s neck.

Belmont chokes on his next breath and one of his hands instinctively shoot up to clutch Alucard’s wrist, while the other brushes against the hilt of his whip. The idea of Belmont actually using the whip is oddly exciting.

But Belmont relaxing his hold and tilting his hand to bare his neck instead is downright _exhilarating_. Alucard pulls him in for another kiss, one where Belmont goes increasingly breathless, making keening noises in the back of his throat and grinding down on the thigh Alucard slots between his legs.

“Alucard—” He wheezes out when he abruptly breaks the kiss, sucking in desperate breaths. His face is entirely red, Alucard notes, but doesn’t let go. Only when the tears gathering in his eyes fall down his cheeks and Belmont is blabbering loud pleas does Alucard ease the pressure on Belmont’s neck—but keeps his hand right there, nestled against his throat.

When he lowers Belmont to his knees and presses a booted foot to his lower stomach, the irony isn’t lost on Alucard, as they have apparently switched roles. Belmont is the one now pleading, looking up at Alucard with reverent eyes, begging for more, begging for _anything._ Alucard tilts his head back with the tip of boot and Belmont doesn’t protest.

God might have the world, but this angel is Alucard’s and his only, and he plans to wipe any trace of holiness deep within his bones, will carve it out until there’s nothing but Alucard’s voice in his mind and his touch on his body. Let God watch, and let him weep.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that time death stole all of alucard's gear bc he's a bitch? wild
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr @mamichigo](http://mamichigo.tumblr.com)


End file.
